Beloved
by redrosemary
Summary: Davina Tabris has seen the beauty and horrors in her travels across Thedas, but always, she returns to Denerim and King Alistair. But as they age, they realize that there are probably things they should have done in their youth. Will they have the courage to take a chance, or are they too settled in their different routines?
1. Chapter 1

In the yellow light of a dozen candles, Davina looks youthful, her flowing red hair pulled back, the lines on her face softened.

King Alistair Theirin is having dinner with Davina Tabris, his Warden-Commander, who is back from her latest adventure from only the Maker knows where. He is glad that this time, Davina has sent word prior to her return, giving him ample time to prepare a little feast for the two of them. Over the years, he has prepared similar informal but intimate meals with her, and tonight was no exception.

Davina laughs at one joke or another, and the clear tinkling sound reminds Alistair of little bells.

"No, really?" he asks her as he pours her another glass of wine. The two of them have learned how to hold their liquor, and he estimates that it would take about four more _bottles_ for them to feel tipsy.

"Yes, really! "Davina giggles. "Empress Celene, is, at this very moment, being entertained by no less than our beloved Witch of the Wilds. And her wild stories, no less."

"I feel sorry for Celene," Alistair muses, and his eyes focuses on Davina. Despite still being sober, the wine has brought out a certain ruddiness in Davina's cheeks. Not for the first time, he thinks it pretty.

"Well, you're going to love this," Davina whispers giddily. "Celene can solve her civil war problem with marriage, but she's not doing it because of some lover. A lovely elf called Brial, Brialla, Bingala. Whatever, but it's still very fresh gossip from Halamshiral."

And then Davina falls silent—as if it is unworthy of any human king or queen to ever love an elf.

Alistair pours her more wine and when a servant delivers their main course—roast beef, her favorite—he hopes that conversation will resume.

He wants to reassure her that he would never think ill of anyone loving an elf, and especially not an empress who has fallen for a lovely elf. After all, is he not a king himself, who has flitted in the thin line between friendship and love for his dearest friend?

But the words are stuck in his throat. Like always. The King never admits it either, but he loves spoiling Davina to bits. Because her visits in the palace are random and infrequent, he has hoarded little things and trinkets he would eventually pamper her with when she returns. A rich blue cloak lined with ermine fur, fit for a queen or empress, after her triumphant return from Amaranthine. _Very_ comfortable Antivan leather boots, which Zevran helped him choose, during the first anniversary of the fall of the Archdemon. An ornate hairpin shaped like a rose, inlaid with small diamonds, four years from the secret date when he offered her the last rose of Lothering. An emerald green gown, to bring out the color of her eyes, during one of the Satinalia balls she attended. A new sword forged by Orzammar master smiths just because her return coincided with King Bhelen's emissaries.

Alistair does not know precisely how many little things he has given Davina, but he always remembers the way her smile reaches her eyes whenever she thanks him. It makes his heart swell with a manly pride—after all these years, he can still make _his_ woman happy.

Not that he and Davina are truly together. True, neither of them are married. And Davina has always occupied a special place in his heart. But they have never shared a kiss, let alone a bed. They have always been partners, allies, friends. But lovers? Never—even if the closest thing to love that he has felt is for her.

Alistair does not know that Davina keeps and treasures those trinkets, carefully storing them in an enchanted box in her room in the palace. He does know, however, that as much as she loves the little home she has built for herself in the Alienage, she does not want to tempt fate—or the elves living in the alienage, to be precise. To them, she is coeval to the shemlen lords, even if they have mostly accepted that not all shemlen lords are out to exploit them. She is not allowed to not forget what she is, both by her peers and the world around her. Despite her accolades and accomplishments, and the fact that she holds a position in court, she is still an elf from the alienage of Denerim, with all the connotations that _elf_ and _Denerim_ and _Ferelden_ bring throughout the world as she travels it.

Which is what Davina has been doing. She extends the definition of "adventure" to include her year in Amaranthine, as a favor to Alistair, who could entrust the Arling to no other. She held power, and humans bowed to her will, but it always seemed to Alistair that she begrudged those months in Vigil's Keep. When he visited her there, he saw her sadness at being told to remain in a place where she has neither true freedom nor friends. But she did not ask him for anything, for which he was glad: he knows that all Davina Tabris has to do is to ask for something, and he will go to the Void itself to see it done. But no, Davina is too good for that. It is probably why she has, on her own merit, allies in the great houses of the Arls.

To Alistair's dismay, however, power and life at court is not Davina's cup of tea. His heart sinks whenever she talks of grand adventures abroad—because he cannot see them, and because she sees them alone, not with him. He listens eagerly to her stories of the frightful vestiges of Tevinter far more well-preserved than in Ferelden, or the masked lords of Orlais and their atrocious accents. The docks of Llomeryn, larger and grander than any of Ferelden's ports, where cargo could be anything, from food to textile to timber to slaves. The spice of Antiva City, where life is cheap. The mausoleums of Nevarra, where the dead lay in houses far richer than those of the living.

But always, Davina's roads lead back to Denerim—whether it is her house in the Alienage or the rooms she occupies in the palace to humor her best friend.

Like what Davina is doing tonight. This soothes Alistair's heart, at least, knowing that no matter how many times she departs, she always comes home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: As pointed out by Flaminea, the previous chapter had issues of one person considering taking his intoxicated friend to bed, connoting that he wants to have sex with her while she's drunk. This is NOT what I intended, and is the product of very poor choice of words. I do NOT APPROVE of anyone having sex or making out with someone who's drunk and can't properly consent.**

* * *

Once, Davina's return was due to the murder of her beloved cousin Shianni, recently named Bann of the Alienage. Shianni was pushing for reforms so that elves could practice a trade and be accorded as true equals, but she was knifed for her efforts. Davina had been in the Marches at the time, but she sped back to Denerim to hold accountable the abominable human wretches responsible. They were ne'er-do-well merchants who thought that elves were nothing but thieving scum—how dare those lazy knife-ears bargain for better wages! They'll kill our businesses! Down with the elf-lover King and his elf whores!

Davina felt the rough wind against her face as it tried to undo her hair. She stood at the prow of the fastest ship she could find, but still, it was not fast enough. She wished that she were a mage, with the power to control the wind and the sea, so she could arrive in Denerim sooner. She wanted to strike the louts dead, to make them feel a thousand times the pain they inflicted in Shianni. No, it was not just Shianni. It was a crime against the elves. Davina would avenge it.

She took another look at the crumpled parchment in her hand. It was so informal, it almost insulted her.

 _My dearest Dav,_

 _I'm so sorry it came to this. I assure you, justice will be swift and deadly for those criminals. Bann Shianni is not without allies and she, like you, is beloved by the Crown and its allies. Please believe that._

 _I've taken your father and your cousin Soris to the palace to protect them, from the obvious dangers in the alienage, and because I think it's best that they are prevented from taking the law into their hands._

 _Come home soon, Dav, you're sorely missed at home._

 _A._

She bitterly thought about what Alistair would do. Hold a trial and imprison them? Where was the justice in that, she thought bitterly. No, those louts deserve the cruelest of deaths, like the one she gave Vaughan Kendalls. She would spill their shemlen guts to the cold earth.

But Davina's vengeance arrived too late: King Alistair had the louts publicly hanged even before her ship entered the Denerim harbor. When she arrived in the square, the undertakers—three elves and a human—were already removing the bodies and preparing for their unceremonious cremation.

"Who are they?" she coldly asked one of them.

"Murdering bastards, m'lady," the first elf answered. "They were seen, and they confessed soon enough."

"The King's justice is swift and true," the human said. "It's a shame, though. We loved Bann Shianni."

Not even the elves recognized her. Without her signature ornate armor and helmet, she was just another elf. An elf in a decent, respectable dress was no longer exotic or unwelcome, as Shianni wrote, and today was the first time she experienced that.

 _Oh, Shianni, if only we had the chance to walk in Denerim in our finery,_ she silently lamented.

So Davina went home, taking the side-streets and alleys instead of the main roads towards her house. The main roads from the Palace District and the Marketplace to the Alienage were Shianni's project, she knew. It caused her so much pain to walk in them.

She also expected to be ambushed, and quite frankly, she wanted to stab someone. But her walk was uneventful.

She arrived in her house. Out of fear and maybe respect, nobody dared to desecrate the house of the Hero of Ferelden. With a sigh, she entered her house. She saw that were it not for the layers of dust, her house was immaculate: the modest furniture were in place. The royal trophies were in the shelves where she left them.

With a cold fury, Davina took the dagger from her sleeve and threw it at the plaque commemorating her as the Hero of Ferelden. The dagger hit the space between her first name and her last name.

It felt cathartic, to finally hit something. So she opened her china cabinet, and threw all her precious plates and crystal glasses on the floor. She reminded herself that she had ended an Archdemon, an old god, and the Fifth Blight. But she could not even defend her people; from the very start, she could never defend her people. Nola was murdered on Davina's wedding day. Shianni was raped, Soris almost imprisoned. Later, the alienage was purged and many elves sold into slavery before she could stop it. Hahren Valendrian and so many others were gone forever.

And now, Shianni was gone forever, brutally murdered by thugs, and where was Davina? Out adventuring, when it should have been she who was appointed bann, she who should have faced those thugs. And she would have survived.

When all her plates and china were shattered, she calmly lit her fire and sat before it, embracing her legs. Her rage had left her, guilt replacing it. She was so enmeshed in her feelings that she did not hear her door open, and a tall human enter.

Or perhaps, she did not care. Maybe she had always known that Alistair would eventually come to her. She wanted to be angry at him, because he was the King and he was powerless to stop the murder of her cousin.

Davina saw again a bloodied wedding dress, a handsome elf dying in a pool of blood. A borrowed longsword on her right hand, a blunt dagger on her left. A fat shemlen lord's guts at her feet. Shianni sobbing, and her bloodied skirts hitched at her waist.

But Alistair did not allow Davina to dwell on that macabre reverie.

"I'm so sorry, Dav," he said, sitting down beside her. "I was too late. I didn't know she was in danger until too late."

She did not hear him.

"Dav," Alistair pleaded again. He took her hand in his, and kissed it. It was probably the first overt sign of affection Alistair given Davina since the Blight, but she was too occupied to notice.

What could he do? So he just wrapped his arms around her, the only consolation he could give. She eventually leaned against him, and the two of them shared the silence together, until Alistair broke it.

"It's not much, I know," he told Davina softly as he handed her his present, a necklace of garnets set in heavy gold. "I meant to give it to you on happier times, not as weregild or a promise. Is it the wrong gesture, Dav?"

Firelight flickered in the object in Alistair's hand, distracting Davina from her reverie.

"It's the color of blood." Davina's voice was ice, and her gaze was still hard. "Her blood. The blood of elves unjustly slain."

"Maybe so," Alistair answered, and he placed the necklace at her collar. She did not resist, but she did not reject the gift either. "It is the color of blood of all who are unjustly slain, elves and humans and dwarves and mages and the poor. I hope you can believe that I'm doing what I can to protect them all."

Davina believed that Alistair meant every word he said.

"I valued Bann Shianni," he told her. "We worked to make life better for the elves. I think she'd want you to continue that work."

Davina was nonplussed. "Are you inviting me to court?"

"You've always been welcome at court, Dav," Alistair said, surprised that she felt that way towards him. "I offered you the Chancellorship, but you opted to run away and go on adventures. So I did the next-best thing: I appointed Shianni as Bann and we tried to make Ferelden better for the elves. And not just the elves."

Davina heard Alistair sigh. Now that the haze from her mind is gone, she realized that Ferelden could have no better king, not at this point. She had seen Ferelden at its worst during the reign of King Cailan, the disarray his death caused and the chaos the ex-queen could not or would not avert. No. Davina's mind was still sharp enough to realize who, and what, knelt before her.

She considered everything she had heard about his reforms: his liberal policies about the mages, his opening the army and the guard to non-humans, his standing up to the Grand Cleric and the Landsmeet for opposing his reforms. Maybe there was truth to what he was saying.

"I'm so sorry, Dav," Alistair insisted. "I never imagined someone would dare kill a Bann, to dare my wrath. Or yours."

"My wrath means nothing, except to the Darkspawn," Davina admitted. She failed Shianni. She would not fail Alistair and Ferelden now—not while Alistair protected the downtrodden. "And my wrath would not do any good now. I accept your offer, my King."

Davina stood up, embarrassed at her outburst and the sorry state of her house. She was somehow glad that Alistair did not seem to mind. He even helped her clean, picking up the broom as if he shared that modest home with her. Afterwards, he asked where she kept her tea leaves, and made some for the both of them.

Davina went to court the next day, and the nobles were convened to declare her the next Bann of the Alienage. She tried to pick up where Shianni left, pouring over her cousin's notebooks and records at night and convening with Alistair all day. Sometimes, she even rode with him on official functions.

But the life of a courtier, however active, was just never hers. She was bored with reading progress reports, or the various justifications of why some projects were delayed or cancelled. She disliked stuffy speeches and meeting boring nobles. Most of them were agreeable, but she could never shake off the feeling that she did not belong with those shemlen lords, however agreeable they might be.

Finally, after little more than a year of being one of Alistair's most trusted advisers, she felt that she could no longer ignore her wanderlust. It was the longest time she spent in the capital since childhood. She now wanted to see new sights, new people, to travel on her own terms. But fearing that seeing the king's face would only undermine her resolve to leave, she fled during the night, leaving only a letter saying she was leaving for the Free Marches.

Instead, she went to see Nevarra.


	3. Chapter 3

Davina has learned to value fine cutlery and table manners from her many adventures, and she really appreciates this nice little dinner that Alistair prepared for her. Roast beef was her favorite, and it went well with the wine.

In the yellow light of the dozen candles, it seems that the years had been kind to the king as well. He looks handsome, in a distinguished way. The grey of his hair is deftly hidden among the gold, and the lines on his face are reduced. The maroon of his embroidered shirt also adds to his sartorial regality, but the fact that it is made of heavy cotton, not expensive brocade, announces that he is the king of the commonfolk.

She decides to focus on finishing her food before she is reduced to a love-struck maiden again, and wonders why she and Alistair have never been together. Until she remembers. He is a king, and she is but an elf. Elves and monarchs do not go together—as the example in Orlais has shown.

"You never told me why you aren't married," Davina remarks oh so casually after dinner.

Alistair is drinking from his goblet when Davina spoke. He nearly chokes, and Davina heartily laughs.

The kind of laughter that signifies true merriment, unlaced by sarcasm or malice.

"I guess I never found the right woman," Alistair says, giving Davina the same answer he always has to prying nobles.

Davina continues laughing, disbelief and merry mischief in her eyes. "The handsome king, still unmarried at that age. One might think you have… other inclinations."

"Well, since you've decided to ask the evil questions, you evil, evil woman," he says with a chuckle, "I might ask you the same. Why didn't you ever settle down?"

"I guess I never found the right man." Davina mimics him perfectly, and she eyes the empty wine bottle. "Or the right woman, for that matter. Do you have more wine?"

Alistair nods. He disappears behind a cellar, and is gone for a while. But returns smiling, with another bottle of wine.

"Leliana sent this… Shay-rash, from Orlais," he declares, and points at the note glued to the bottle. "Says it's good with steaks."

"Shee-raz," Davina corrects him slowly. " _Shiraz_. How come a lowly elf knows Orlesian better than the King of Ferelden?"

"Because that lowly elf has travelled the world and this king was raised by flying dogs from the Anderfels?" Alistair continues, pleased at her mirth.

"Ah, the very devout and pious Andrastrian dogs from the Anderfels," Davina plays along. She has missed their playful banter. "The ones with the unholy obsession for cheese. Yes."

Alistair surely has servants, but where are they? Why are they not waiting on him as he eats? Or as his guest of honor eats?

The elf watches her royal companion open the bottle and pour their wine. How many times has this golden king poured her wine—or brandy, or fruit juice, or even water? Too many, but tonight is the first time Davina truly notes that.

Davina swallows, her happy mood halved. _Did he perhaps think I'm not good enough to waste servants' efforts for?_

"You'll note the hint of fancy Orlesian fineries?" Alistair says nasally, in bad imitation of the Orlesian accent.

Davina only nods, and accepts the wine. She tastes it, and thinks it bitter.

* * *

Alistair sees how Davina's mood has deteriorated, and he can't help but be affected by it.

"How have you been, Dav?" he asks her, his voice modulated, no longer playful. "You've been gone for so long."

"As good as can be, given the circumstances." Davina says. Her eyes avoid his, and she withdraws her hands from the table.

Alistair is fluent enough in _Davina_ to know that despite her accolades and her travels, and the noble title he has bestowed upon her, she still has a terrible inferiority complex. _She deems herself ignoble_ , he sadly thinks. _After all this time, does she not know how highly I value her?_

He watches her take another sip of the bitter Orlesian wine.

And then she answers. "I've seen a lot of marvelous things. How's life at court?"

"Could be better," he answers her, truthfully and seriously. "Some banns are hardheaded, but I'm not without support. There's Teagan, Eamon, Alfstanna, Fergus and Bryland. You like them, right? And I'm doing better, I think, than the Orlesian empress or the late Viscount of Kirkwall."

"I've heard about them," Davina says. "You should be careful."

"Do you think Ferelden is in danger?" Alistair asks.

But it is a question within a question.

He knows that Davina knows more than she lets on, or more than she cares to admit. Being an astute traveller, she has seen the world first-hand. And the king does not need to hear from his diplomats abroad that Davina is gifted at diplomacy—he has seen it firsthand during the Blight. Davina could pacify even the most implacable of enemies and make them work together, if she put her mind in it. _Or_ , he realizes for the first time, _if I ask her for it._

Davina takes another long sip from her wine, and seems to seriously ponder the question.

"Yes," she finally answers. "But not from overt civil unrest, like in Orlais, or an invasion like in Kirkwall. You still have the support of your nobles and I don't see a Qunari fleet anywhere near us."

Another pause, and he sees her eye travel to her now-empty wine glass. But he does not refill it—he does not move, lest he break Davina's momentum.

"You know, I've never really thanked you for making our lives better," Davina continues, and Alistair remembers the myriad of stories she has told him over the years about her travels. "For thinking that elven lives matter—that non-noble lives matter. It's not the same in the rest of the world."

"I've you to thank for that," Alistair answers. "You gave me the crown and enabled me to do all of this."

"Well, yes, there is that," Davina says, and her face lights up in a smile again. "But there's also your good heart, which is something that no amount of gold or politicking could buy."

Alistair is relieved. He hopes that he is now back in her good graces, especially since she places her hands on their table again, and resumes her meal. And judging from that twinkle in her eye, she must appreciate her food.

Alistair reminds himself to thank his chef, a middle-aged elf from Redcliffe, and to give him a bonus.

* * *

Davina feels lighter now, all bad thoughts gone and replaced with fondness. Nor did the lack of servants bother her right at this moment—instead, she felt rather intimate with her old friend. Any other person in the room would ruin their moment.

It has not escaped her that for the first few years, Alistair was unhappy with his crown. Back then, it was evident in his eyes—and that was partly why she left, because she could not stand how sad he was, in that throne, and that was her fault. But that's over now. He is no stranger to power now, and she knows that putting Alistair on the throne is her best decision ever.

"I'm rather glad you don't hate me for _it_ now," she says.

"What?" he asks her, a lopsided grin on his face.

"The crown," Davina answers. "You used to hate it."

"I did it for you," he tells her simply.

She thinks him very handsome at that moment. Her eyes travel to his golden hair, his kind eyes, his regal bearing. _No, I refuse to be a love-struck maiden,_ she tells herself. _He is a good king who takes care of his people. And I am but a wanderer._

She does not want to admit it now. She has denied herself for years, and convinces herself she can continue to do so. Alistair has her heart, and her wanderlust is her excuse to avoid entanglements with him.

For years, she has declared that she will kill even gods who threaten Ferelden. She said it in front of the Landsmeet, and again in front of the masses.

But her heart knows, it is not for Ferelden that she would kill gods for. It is for Alistair, its king. And even if he weren't, he would still do it, _because he is Alistair._

Davina decides to leave before her heart betrays her. She stands up, intending to bid her dearest friend good night, but instead he takes her hand.

"Dav, I've something to say to you that I should have said many years ago."


End file.
